For the first 30 years of my life, I celebrated Father’s Day by paying tribute to my father, though not necessarily always well. I celebrated Father’s Day during my college years by taking off work for the weekend, driving up from Baltimore, and playing tennis with Good Joe. But my dad was at least present on my mind. For the next seven years, I honored his memory by creating a routine of watching Big Fish, rereading a story I wrote about him, and writing about him on a blog no one read for what I called “Father’s Week.” Last year, I became a father.
I look forward very much to the days when Mabel is old enough to want to do something special for her daddy. But sadly, I’m not sure a 0-year-old really understands the concept of celebrating something more today than you did yesterday. She doesn’t even really understand the concept of object permanence yet, and likely just assumes that Jenn disappears into the train station for 10 hours a day. If there comes a time when she wants to make daddy some dry, misshapen pancakes hours before I’d rather be awake, I will happily indulge her. But until then, I’m between Father’s Days.
As an at-home dad who spends on average 163 of 168 hours per week with my daughter, the concept of going out with her doesn’t appeal to me any more than it does any other day. That’s not special. That’s my job (which, by the way, is the greatest job there could ever be in the world, and I’m so very grateful to my wife for allowing me this opportunity). So I went to a movie last year. By myself. That was different. That was special. Though it was the crappy new Superman, so maybe hiding in the basement while streaming Arrested Development might have been a day better spent. But still, that’s what I wanted to do.
This year, I’m going golfing for the first time since D-Day almost two years ago (if I can dig my clubs out from a mound of outgrown jumpers, strollers, and 30-gallon containers of poop-stained onesies), because I have the opportunity and it’s what I want to do. Which is great. But it doesn’t feel like Father’s Day. It feels counterintuitive to celebrate being a dad by leaving my child for longer than I’ve been apart from her in her lifetime. But I suppose that’s what I’m relegated to in the position that I’m in for another few years. And I look forward to the days when Mabel hops on a train, comes back from college for the weekend, and plays tennis with her high school friend.